


that's not what i lament

by euphania



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Drabble, F/F, Self-Reflection, minor alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-25 20:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphania/pseuds/euphania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hélène laments what she did to Natasha.</p><p>Okay, “lament” is a strong word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's not what i lament

**Author's Note:**

> idrk how this came about but here we are. i only write drabbles it seems
> 
> notes:
> 
> \- the title is lowkey. a pun  
> \- i reference natasha + her suicide attempt so keep urself safe!! it's not very intense but it is there  
> \- hélène is such a fun character. i love her

Hélène laments what she did to Natasha. 

Okay, “lament” is a strong word. The only time Hélène ever plans on _lamenting_ is when she dies young and beautiful and iconic and wishes she had died younger and more beautiful and more iconic. Sure, that’s dramatic, but Hélène’s not too bothered by it. 

None of that changes the fact that even now, Natasha is on Hélène’s mind, like a loud fly in a small room. Her name sparks an acidic drop in Hélène’s stomach, a sense of “You could have done better.” 

Obviously, Hélène could have done better. She _could have_ not flattered Natasha so at the opera—not that those weren’t genuine compliments, the girl is a miracle—and she _could have_ not asked her to dinner; she could have told her that her brother is not necessarily a good man, a good lover, that _she_ is not necessarily a good, well, anything. She could have said to stay away, yet she didn’t, and that’s that, it shouldn’t bother her, things _never_ bother Countess Hélène Bezukhova, so why is Hélène still stuck on Natasha like she’s glue?

A ghost of Natasha’s small laughs, her breathiness, her dark lips and the white of her eyes floats through Hélène's mind, and, oh, god _dammit_ , Hélène knows why. She may be a Kuragin, impenetrable and seductive, never truly in love, yet—damn it all.

 

Pierre mentions something about Natasha being ill, very ill, and one string, two strings are pulled and Hélène’s ears are filled with the whispers that the Countess Natalya had downed some arsenic in the night, sickly maroon poison down her throat. The poor girl is still dancing some quadrille, some mazurka with death, but apparently she will survive. Perhaps. Maybe. Rumors are always exaggerated.

 

Hélène doesn’t _really_ like drinking alcohol as a remedy for troubles, but it’s just so _iconic,_ so _elegant,_ that she sits, sorrowful and bitter, draped in black silk with fur linings, a small pout on her lips and a glass of red _something_ in her hand, even if she's always preferred rosé.

This is Hélène’s normal thought process with a lost, potential _lover_ : sit, drink, pout a bit, let the feelings mix with the strange pooling of alcohol, move on. Sure, the amount of time that her “grieving” took varied—it took a considerably long time after her dances with the Tsar, it was the _Tsar_ —but it was just that. “Grieving.” Quotations marks and all.

She thinks: Natasha wouldn’t have done this if _I_ had been the Kuragin who courted her.

She thinks: _I_ wouldn’t have tried to _elope_ with her after three days. _I_ would have been smart about it. 

She thinks: Oh, if it was _me,_  and _her,_ oh, it would have been… exquisite. It would have been… _charmante._

She thinks: The conditional is a marvelous tense.

She thinks, but underneath the black silk and fur linings and glitter and status of estranged Countess Hélène Bezukhova, she _laments._

She laments, and it’s like baby Hélène, 14 year-old Hélène, carefree, run-in-the-mud Hélène, the Hélène of her childhood that _felt_ things with depth, who let the emotions sink into her skin and let herself breathe. Baby Hélène wants to feel that loss and melancholy. Baby Hélène wants to feel guilty, wants to wish that Natasha were here so she could apologize, wants to hold her, wants to whisper compliments against her ear until Natasha was laughing again, laughing like an angel’s chorus.

Hélène sighs and takes another sip of her drink.


End file.
